Kitten
by Radioactive Ferret
Summary: In the end, it wasn’t Al’s pleading that finally convinced Ed to keep the cat. In fact, it had nothing to do with Al. In this case, it was the result of one drink too many in the wrong company.


Title: Kitten

Rating: PG13

Summary: In the end, it wasn't Al's pleading that finally convinced Ed to keep the cat. In fact, it had nothing to do with Al. In this case, it was the result of one drink too many in the wrong company.

Author's Notes: This fanfic is dedicated to D3athrav3n92, whose scenes in Alchemic Innocence with Allen and Ed having an eating contest and playing a card game inspired this pile of crack. Enjoy, everyone!

Disclaimer: I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist, and I am not making any money off this fanfic. If I was, I'd have a faster internet service provider and my own laptop that didn't shut down every five minutes.

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In the end, it wasn't Al's pleading that finally convinced Ed to keep the cat. In fact, it had nothing to do with Al. Never mind the fact he'd been pleading with his older brother for several months on end—Ed had long since learned to tune him out when it came to the topic of cats. No; in this case, it was the result of one drink too many in the wrong company.

It started at the bar. Almost every problem in the military started at the bar. Most of the time, alcohol was involved. Sometimes it wasn't, but that was a very rare thing. This problem, however, involved alcohol. Lots of alcohol, in fact. In hindsight, the bartender should've cut the group off sooner, but he was used to having psycho drunks in his bar on the weekends.

Riza Hawkeye wasn't the type to get thoroughly trashed after work. Sure, she would enjoy a drink or two here and there, but never enough to impair her judgment. The thought of her aim being off in the slightest was simply abhorrent. However, it had been a very stressful week, and she was hardly surprised to see several of her co-workers on their third or fourth glass by the time she walked in. The first person she noticed was Hughes. Two empty glasses sat on the table beside him, and he was sipping idly on a third. He hadn't changed his clothes, so he'd probably just gone straight to the bar maybe an hour ago.

The second familiar face she saw was Al's. He sat in the corner farthest from the bar, and kept casting reproachful glances at a particularly rowdy group at the table beside him. This specific group contained about twenty people, all of whom seemed to be playing a very odd game involving cards and shots of some liquor Hawkeye was highly considering ordering for herself.

Then the pandemonium began.

Hawkeye had just received her drink and was about to take a sip when Ed's loud voice rang out across the bar: "WHO'RE YOU CALLING SO SHORT HE CAN'T SEE OVER THE BARSTOOL, YOU BASTARD??"

"I never said that, Fullmetal. I just said that you're a bit young to be drinking."

Of course. It just had to happen. She drained her glass of scotch in one long gulp, then made her way back to the bar in resignation. Things were going to get ugly.

"They're at it again, huh?" asked Hughes as Hawkeye passed his table.

She nodded. "Sure looks like it. Any idea what's wrong this time?"

"Not a clue. I'm staying out of it."

"I bet I can drink more than you, you bastard!" continued Ed brazenly, slamming his fist on the table for emphasis.

Roy rolled his eyes. "As much as I would love to take you up on that offer, Fullmetal, I'm not as immature as certain people who come here to get thoroughly shit-faced. I'll decline."

"WHAT WAS THAT?!" roared Ed. "I am NOT immature! You're the one who doesn't have enough balls to back up his insults!"

Roy glared. "Oh, so it's like that, is it?" he snapped. "Fine. Shot-for-shot?"

"You're on."

Al tugged weakly on his brother's arm. "Niisan, please, don't! I don't wanna carry you out of the bar again! You're a real jerk when you're drunk."

"Way to be supportive, Al," grumbled Ed. "I'm not gonna pass out before that asshole."

Al crossed his arms and mumbled under his breath. "Yes you are."

Ed didn't seem to hear his brother, however, since Havoc chose that moment to arrive with a huge tray of shot glasses. "Have at it!" he exclaimed, pulling up a chair to watch the action.

"What the hell are you two doing?" snapped Hawkeye, grabbing Roy's arm as he reached for the first shot.

"It's a drinking game," retorted Roy, pulling his arm free of Hawkeye's grip. "I'm proving to Fullmetal here that he's too young to be drinking."

"By getting him rip-roaring drunk so he vomits all over himself?" asked Hawkeye sarcastically. "What an amazing lesson."

"I've got a better idea!" exclaimed Ed. "Havoc, grab us more drinks! Everyone's playing!"

"What am I, your tavern wench?!" snapped Havoc, offended. "Get 'em yourself."

Roy smirked. "Fullmetal said it himself. He can't see over the barstool!"

"Right, that DOES it!" Ed lunged at Roy, and Hawkeye wrinkled her nose as she sidestepped the two men rolling around on the floor.

"Men," she spat. "Immature dumbasses—every single one of them."

Hughes blinked innocently. "I resent that!" he said in mock offence.

Havoc kicked Ed in the ribs. "Get up, you two. Are we doing this or not?"

Ed yelped sharply and clutched his left side. "Fine, fine. But that bastard deserved it." He shot a glare at Roy, then climbed back into his chair. "Alright, rules?"

"Right," Hughes agreed, taking a seat between Armstrong and Breda. "Whoever pukes or passes out loses. Last one standing wins."

"That's no fun!" argued Havoc. "We have to up the stakes a bit. Let's make a wager!"

"Alright, that sounds fair," agreed Roy. "If I win, Fullmetal has to do all my paperwork and wear 8-inch stilettos."

Ed spluttered in outrage. "WHAT?! Why the heels?"

"I'm getting to that," explained Roy patiently. "If anyone asks why you're wearing them, you have to say it's because you're too short to see over my desk."

Everyone laughed, but Ed simply glared. "Fine! But if _I_ win, you, my good Colonel, will be wearing a fetish French maid outfit for a month. And when anyone asks you about it, you have to tell them it accentuates your eyes."

More laughter. "Alright," said Armstrong with a grin. "If I win—and I know I will—everybody has to wear pink bows in their hair, and when asked about it, you have to say Hawkeye finds them cute."

"Okay, but if _I_ win," interrupted Hawkeye. "_You're_ paying the tab, Colonel."

Breda waved his hand eagerly. "If I win, Hawkeye gets rid of that beast of hers!"

Hughes grabbed a shot. "Well, if I win, you guys will be wearing frilly panties on your heads."

Havoc thought for a moment. "That's completely cruel, but I think I have a better idea," he said with a grin. "When I win, Hawkeye has to wear a micro-skirt and a tight vinyl tube top. With thigh-high, spike-heeled boots," he added as an obvious afterthought.

Roy and Breda cheered, but Havoc's smile faded as he felt Hawkeye's pistol jar his temple. "Ah heh heh… anyways, let's get started, shall we?" he said nervously.

"Wait!"

Everyone glanced behind them. Al stood behind his brother, holding a tiny ball of fluff with ears in his armored hands.

"I wanna make a bet too!"

Ed arched an eyebrow. "You aren't drinking, Al. Why do you wanna make a bet?"

"I'm the designated score-keeper, so I want my cut," he said, pouting. "If you're the third one out, I get to keep this kitten."

"Al, how many times have I told you—" began Ed in exasperation.

"Unless, of course, you're worried you're gonna lose…" commented Al snidely.

Ed glared. "Fine. If I'm the third one to barf, you can keep the cat. Happy?"

"Very!" Al affirmed, nodding. "Alright, everyone! Consume!"

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Author's note: Well, here ends chapter 1! Tune in next time, and you will get to see the guys drunk off their hot asses! (drool) Thanks for reading, everyone!


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